Therese.
That's me.
But I'm not usually known by that name. Madame Defarge is what most people call me. I'm the knitter, the runner of the wine-shop; the common workingwoman who simply does what she must. I'm the killer whose hands kit death into even stitches, and beautiful designs and whose heart is as cold and hard as the walls of the Bastille.
Not as unmovable as them, no. For someday, perhaps in my lifetime, those walls will move. They will come crashing down and bury the tyrants in their rubble as the common people cheer.
Those walls are as merciless as I. We forgive nothing. The Bastille has a thousand ghosts crying for blood within him, begging to be remembered. I have my stitches.
I knit so that, even if I'm not alive, the crimes of these people will be remembered by future rebels and paid for in full. I need not worry about remembering myself. I forget nothing.